face to face / dear evan hansen

two: the coffee

alana pours the water into her mug. it's her favourite one: the one with the nasa logo she bought from a gift store somewhere that wasn't nasa.

she watches the bubbles collide in her cup of coffee, before settling in the middle of the cup.

her pa always told her that when the bubbles are like that, it means rain is coming. she can hear his voice: soft and rushed and punctuated with nervous laughs. she remembers how his hands were always moving—through his hair; picking at loose skin; scratching jumper hems. she used to joke to herself that's where she gets her anxiety from.

staring at this cup of coffee, she has to shake herself to to force herself to stop being so reminiscent. stop remembering shit like that before her coffee gets salty.

instead, she casts her gaze out to the window. supposed to rain soon, if her coffee is right. her pa said it almost always was.

rain is nice. it's a relaxing beat, and it waters flowers. apart from she can never see because it makes patterns on her glasses.

rain in a few hours.

maybe she shouldn't be drinking coffee this late.